“What are you up to tonight?” Taylor asks, doing that thing where her eyes flick up to mine and down to my mouth. She’s twisted toward me, one finger toying with her lip while the other hand’s running through her hair. If my inner alarm bells hadn’t rung when she breathed right into my ear, they most definitely are now.
“This,” I tell her as I ease back, arms folded, and glance toward the bar.
It’s empty.
“You get off soon? You must, right? Kitchen’s closing.”
“Staying late. Got a project in back.”
Taylor’s eyes look over my shoulder to where the hall disappears at the end of the dining room and looks up at me, voice low. “The back? Need any help with that?”
The guy seated behind me mutters something and shoves up to standing, bumping me with his stool in the process.
“I’m good, thanks.” I tap the bar. “Have a great one, Taylor.”
“Hey,” the guy asks, a little unsteady on his feet. “You know where the barmaid is?”
“Barmaid?” I force my hands to unclench.
“Yeah, you know, the one with the?—”
“What do you need?” I swear, if the fucker mentions Kit’s chest, I’ll lose it.
“Just want to cash out and get out of here.” He casts an angry look around. “Place is dead.”
I nod. “I’ll get her.”
After a quick check of the kitchen, I head to the back. There’s no one in dry storage. The restroom door’s open. Empty. I get to the office, reach for the handle, and hesitate. After a quick inhale, I knock.
“Yeah?”
“You’re needed.”
Silence.
“Kit? You okay?”
“Yeah. Be right there.”
I wait. Nothing happens. I grab the doorknob and pause. This isn’t a woman whose space you encroach on.
Fuck, though, do I want to encroach. After a few seconds, I force myself to turn and head back out. At the bar, I tell the guy she’s coming and give Taylor a curt goodnight, then return to my kitchen.
My kitchen. Right. Best knock that proprietary feeling out of my system right away. I’ve got about as much claim to this line as I’ve got to Kit. Meaning none.
She’s hiring someone to replace me and I’m heading to Norway.
Norway’s easy. Rig life’s straightforward—cold as hell, but that’s not a bad thing. Then brief periods of land life. Sex that’s straightforward, women who want exactly what I’m looking for—physical relief. Huge bonuses. Hell, maybe I’ll stay there past the contract or move on to Aberdeen. There’s good beer in Scotland.
After that, hell, maybe South America.
“What’s the date, Frida?”
“Uh, seventh. No, eighth.
Fuck, I’ve got three weeks left.
“Any sign of a replacement for me?”
